


Baby Steps (to the Galactic Throne)

by Xharifyra



Series: The Boy with the Sun in His Eyes [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, tiny terror hux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:38:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7732459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xharifyra/pseuds/Xharifyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Armitage will rule the galaxy and bring order to every planet within its expanse - of that, Brendol is certain. Until then, the boy will require guidance and a firm hand... especially considering that, at two years old, he can't even pronounce his own name.</p>
<p>DDM-38 may insist that this is normal, but Brendol knows best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Steps (to the Galactic Throne)

**Author's Note:**

> Because until canon states otherwise, I refuse to believe that Brendol Hux was a _total_ arse to his son.
> 
> A huge, huge thank you to **GenHux** for answering my questions about child behaviour  & giving me plenty of ideas for potential future Huck shenanigans; **droidsindistress** for putting up with me bending their ear about Huck since forever; **zombiebrainsoup** who's given me encouragement  & sent me emergency birbs in times of need.

There were times when Brendol genuinely wondered if his wife, Maratelle, deliberately chose the name 'Armitage' as revenge for his indiscretion, knowing full well how much a small child would struggle with its complexity; knowing full well that Brendol wouldn't tolerate anything less than perfection from his own flesh and blood.

This was one of those times.

Before him, his two year-old son bawled and thrashed in the confines of his high chair's harness, smacking his fists into the remains of his dinner. Early on, Brendol had given up with trying to shield his uniform from the onslaught of gravy and root vegetable; considering that his son's usual tactics involved urinating and defecating, food was a blessing.

"Not Papa!" Gobbets of mashed potato spattered everywhere, the small, pale dollops serving as a contrast to Armitage's screwed-up, bright red face. Not for the first time Brendol wondered about the practicalities of weaponising childcare. "Want Mama!" The little boy howled and kicked noisily at the durasteel framework, hoping to create enough of a din that DeeDee would materialise and set him free.

Yes, Brendol would like to see a legion of the Republic's finest attempt to placate an entire army of squalling infants, all requiring their nappies changed, or to be fed, or to be fussed over. All of them only too eager to soil themselves the moment they were securely in the arms of an adult.

"Armitage." He cut over his son's wailing, reaching out awkwardly as he contemplated how to go about soothing the irate toddler. When he managed to secure one tiny, flailing fist, Armitage stopped crying to stare up at his father expectantly. "You will behave yourself."

When a tentative pause confirmed that he'd recaptured his son's attention, he set about trying to bring the evening's lesson back on track. Armitage was not leaving his high chair until he'd pronounced his name clearly and correctly, without prompting. DeeDee had been dismissed for the time being, having overstepped the mark the moment she began rattling off data about 'child development' and 'average milestones'. There was _nothing_ average about his son; that's what these lessons were going to prove.

"Ar-mi-tage." Brendol enunciated as clearly and slowly as he could. "Ar. Mi. Tage."

Armitage squirmed in his seat, seemingly torn between launching right back into his shrieking or playing along; such had been the pattern for the last hour.

"Mimage." The little boy blinked, tried again. "Armage."

Fighting back a sound of annoyance, Brendol pressed on; it was slow-going, but they were making progress.

"Arr-mih-tidge."

Unexpectedly, Armitage giggled. "Tidge! Tidge!" He clapped his hands, inadvertently spraying his father in cold gravy, as he crowed in approval. "Tidge Huck!"

"No." Brendol ground out, sensing danger. "Arr. Mih. Tidge."

Suddenly changing tack, Armitage re-examined his high chair, twisting in the harness that kept him safely tethered.

"Come on now, boy. Say it."

In response, Armitage let out a low, frustrated whine, fidgeting more intently as he wriggled against the straps. "Don't want!"

"Armitage. Say your name and you can get down." Upon hearing the magic word 'down', the small boy snapped his head up, fixing his father with a determined frown.

"Huck," he said, indicating to himself, before lifting his arms up. "Down now."

Despite his growing irritation at being so flagrantly disobeyed - and by a two year-old, no less! - Brendol could appreciate his son's stubbornness, and if he hadn't been so dead set on hearing the boy pronounce his name correctly, he'd have been tempted to bring their lesson to an end there.

"Your name, now," he barked instead.

"Me Huck!" Armitage roared, whipping himself from side to side in an attempt to rock the high chair over; Brendol shuffled forwards in his seat to trap the frame between his outstretched legs, holding it steady. 

"You Papa! Not want!" Then Armitage began screaming in earnest, straining vigorously against the straps holding him in place, trying desperately to wiggle free. "Not want Papa! Not want you!" His little fists pounded at the plasteel tray before him, battering it in raw, unbridled fury as he redoubled his efforts with his feet, kicking so hard that Brendol could feel the frame vibrating alarmingly against his kneecaps.

"HUCK. WANT. MAMA." Armitage exploded, and moments later the door slid open behind him as DDM-38 finally appeared, summoned by the sound of her charge in distress. As she tended to him, emitting a soothing hum while unfastening the high chair's straps, the little boy glared at his father, and with an air of finality he growled: “Huck not want Papa."

Something small, unidentifiable, yet sharp like a splinter, gave off a twinge inside Brendol's chest. For one long moment, he felt defeated, bewildered by his failed attempt to teach his son to speak properly. Moreover, he was going to have to rethink DeeDee's current programming, if it allowed her to override his commands in response to the brat's tantrums.

And yet... the boy was insisting that his name was Hux. Not 'Armitage', with which he could potentially forge his own identity. _Interesting_. Brendol wondered if, years from now, his son would look back and realise that this was the day that would set the precedent for the rest of his life.

Perhaps 'Hux' would be the mantle he would strive to grow into.


End file.
